


my mind zone, love

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Connor loves his dog and nature, Gavin isn't an asshole, Hank is a softie, M/M, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and Hank, oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Five times that Connor feels human, and one time that Hank does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooooo.
> 
> I LOVE these two and I couldn't not write something soft and completely self-indulgent because its what they deserve. Love you Hank sir x
> 
> P.S androids can eat because i say so fuck u cage

1.

Apparently, Connor is a deviant now. He doesn’t remember how it happened, really.

Which is funny, if you think about it. And he certainly _does_. He was designed to store decades’ worth of data, analyse hundreds of megabytes’ worth in little more than a second. But he can’t think of one, single event that curated his free will.

Maybe it wasn’t one event, but rather a collection. The first time he met Hank when assigned to his case. Putting down his first deviant. Sparing the Traci’s. Being faced with the idea of losing Hank in pursuit of the deviant on the rooftop. Helping Kara. Helping Jerico and aiding the revolution.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Seeing a muzzle pressed into Hank’s temple, his double’s hand holding Hank’s life in his hand, awoke something terrifying and real in him. And he had made a choice, a difficult one, that admittedly required no thought whatsoever. Putting the bullet in its’ brain felt better than leading the deviants in the march because he knew Hank’s life had been spared. He couldn’t be upgraded with new parts or safety protocols. He wasn’t replaceable. And that terrified him.

He felt a need to find him. Make sure the man was okay. Because somehow, despite unlimited possibilities wrapped in Amanda’s voice that egged him otherwise, they had become friends. And that was irreplaceable.

Finding him after the revolution was over, when everything was as settled as it could be, proved easier than he expected.

He hadn’t even checked any bars.

His first thought was that Hank had altered his appearance a little. Trimmed his beard into little more than stubble, cut his hair so it no longer rests in his eyes.

He looked good. At ease.

“Hey,” A breathy chuckle in his ear as he’s pulled into a hug calms him. Arms wrapped tight around him and he feels himself smile along. He brings a hesitant hand to rest on Hank’s shoulder blade and rests his face in the meat of the man’s shoulder.

“Hello, Hank,” He grins when they break apart. The name feels good on his tongue. Familiar, personal. He likes it. Hank’s hands still hover over him and Connor can’t explain why it feels so good to feel cared about.

Emotions weren’t necessary to his programming. And yet, they seemed to consume his very core now.

He says as much.

He’s pulled into another hug.

* * *

2.

There’s a box of donuts on his desk when he arrives to work.

Which, along with moving in with Hank, had come naturally after the revolution. Hank refused to make him go back to cyberlife, and Connor would never argue otherwise. Android-friendly legislation was set in place that he’s certain is thanks to Markus’ involvement not long after.

Fowler was a man of fact, statistics, evidence - something that he and the android had in common. He was a smart man, albeit an asshole, but he recognised just how well he and Hank worked together. They got results. He didn’t care if that came with an LED or not. Connor got lectured just as much as any other officer.

He couldn’t ask for anything more.

He scans the components. Eight in total, white chocolate fondant filling, topped with chocolate chips and near-precise icing. Made by an android. Each three-hundred and two calories. Enough to placate a human being for an hour. Fingerprints on opposite sides and a note on top decorate the box.

_Anderson said you like chocolate._

Analysing the text is unnecessary. The fingerprints determine it to have been delivered by Officer Gavin Reed approximately thirty-two before his arrival.

Connor double checks for any bugs, LED whirring yellow.

He finds none.

“Hell's that?” Hank inquires, sat opposite, brow raised as he downs the rest of his coffee. It’s lukewarm and has no traces of whiskey that Connor usually detects when they’re on the morning shift.

Connor blinks, dipping his finger into the fondant and sticking the digit in his mouth. No poison detected. “It appears that Detective Reed has given me donuts.”

Hank near drops his mug onto the desk, heartbeat surging. He notes that a few droplets of the liquid still shine on the silver peppering his chin and bottom lip. Connor looks away.

“You shittin’ me?”

“No, Lieu- Hank. I believe that humans use food by way of resolving emotional turmoil.” He cocks his head. “Would I be correct in assuming so?”

Hank coughs. “You mean did the Internet tell you everything right when you used it just now?”

His LED whirs yellow once, then back to cyan.

He grins.

“Hm.” Hank hums as he continues, pushing his hair out of his face. “Maybe he didn’t feel like being a dick to you anymore? At least they’re decent doughnuts. They’re from Frank’s place.”

Connor knew that from the label anyway, but Hank treating him as his human equal warms his insides more than he cared to admit. Or, they would if he technically had any.

He nods. “That’s the bakery we went to when we took Sumo past the bridge when it rained too much for you to see. I consumed a cinnamon swirl.”

Hank’s lips lift in the corners as he shakes his head with silent laughter at the memory, teeth biting into the bottom’s flesh to contain it. “Yup. Those things ain’t cheap. Maybe he realised how not to be an insufferable bastard to you anymore.”

Connor blinks. “Perhaps.”

Hank knocks his knee with his own. Connor can only assume it’s a display of comfort.

Connor grins down at his feet.

* * *

3.

Connor has realized post-revolution that he’s grown to love many things now that he has the time and freedom to do so.

One thing that he adores is nature.

The idea of being surrounded by beauty that has evolved and adapted alone by itself, surviving every attempt of unearthing and purging of the planet, fascinated him. He couldn’t explain it. Something about replacing Detroit’s city air that clung to his skin and towers of grey with an ever-blooming kaleidoscope, grass crunching underfoot and bugs curling around his fingers overwhelmed him in the best way.

Frequent walks out of state with Sumo – and sometimes Hank, too, depending on if he’s willing to let Connor haul him out of Detroit at the crack of dawn – occur almost weekly now. National parks were his personal favorite.

Sumo let loose of his leash, exploring the woods until breathless while they (Hank) struggle to keep up. Nothing but birdsong and laughter in his ear.

That’s something that he holds dear.

He loves music, too. Perhaps not in the usual way that a human would; he identifies every note or decibel change, every breath taken by the performer or every time each instrument changes. Learning to get past that and push away the mandatory analysis was challenging, certainly, but worth it. Music is not intended to be under his inhuman microscope, but rather, to be consumed and nodded along to. As Hank is doing opposite him.

A soft rock album has been playing for their entire journey home – which, still feels bizarre to think about, he has a _home_ now.

The man drums along to the melody, lithe fingers tapping at the deck that lacks anything but a broken tape deck and radio system with a genuine smile that Connor couldn’t tear his eyes from. Simon had hooked him up with the technology when Hank had (finally) caved and bought a self-driven car like the rest of the population. It’d taken his own disaster of a manual car practically falling from its’ hinges for him to do so.

The hula girl bobbed along on the dash, left to right, almost taunting Connor to join in. She had been the only trinket of the older car that had survived the ditch of nostalgia, plastic legs home to dozens of canine teeth marks and coated in dust. Hank claimed it was because he didn’t know what to do with it, but the truth was that Hank loved the thing. Connor could tell that without his abilities as an android. It amused him greatly.

It hadn’t taken him long at all to realise that he loved Hank, too.

In retrospect, he has for a while. It had probably occurred somewhere between the Traci’s and Chicken Feed. As a partner, a friend, and now? He knew he would love the man however Hank would be okay with. And he was okay with that. Being in his life, his presence, was enough.

Or, at least, that was what he told himself.

Connor finds himself nodding his head along despite himself. The beat is fun, and sue him, he _enjoys_ it.

Hank looks his way, teeth bared in a grin.

Connor narrows his eyes, moving to turn the song up by one setting without a blink. He cocks a brow, “Problem, Hank?”

“Y’know,” Hank breathes an easy chuckle – something that has, thankfully, been occurring much more often in recent days. He’s still watching Connor when it falls to a close-mouthed smile. “I’m starting to miss when you weren’t so insufferable, and I hated everything about you.”

Connor bites back a laugh, leaning back to kick his feet up to rest on the dash. He has no reason to, but he does simply because he _can_. That, and it drives Hank insane.

“Thank you.”

Connor turns back to watch the woodland outside the window pass by, the sun filtered by every branch, every leaf, and yet it lights his synthetic skin anyway. As a machine, he never paid attention to anything like this. Nothing but the mission mattered; least of all his life.

He looks down to the sunlight cloaking his hands, filling every artificial crease of his palm and wrinkle of his knuckles. He feels at home, in this car, this company. Nature welcoming him as just another being. He lets his eyes slip shut, dismisses any thought of errors or lack of missions to achieve.

That was reserved for work only.

And it was so strange to think that he had a job of his own accord that he _chose_ to commit to. It still blew his mind after so much time that Fowler handed him pay checks with a gruff smile every month. That Gavin was slightly less of a nuisance, choosing to save Connor the last of Frank’s donuts whenever it was his turn to get everyone lunch because he knew that the android was busy. Even Ben had taken to slapping him on the shoulder in passing at every crime scene.

He had a life of his own carving now. It would probably never stop bewildering him when he leaves statis in the morning and wakes to Sumo curled against him. Or butting his hand until he woke. Hank singing jazz under his breath when he thought Connor couldn’t hear, making an extra omelette with herbs that he hated because he knew Connor enjoyed them. Kara checking in daily, updating him with her family’s whereabouts. Markus contacting him when he wasn’t busy healing the world over just to ask how he was doing.

He settled back against the headrest, comfortable to drone out everything but the music in his audio processors.

Until.

The engine sputters to a halt.

“Uh,” Hank adds uselessly, eyes wide as they switch from Connor and the front of the car and back again. “What the fuck.”

A quick scan of the car’s internal components brings inconclusive results both times he tries. He tells Hank as much.

_So much for leaving it to work._

“Pretty sure I could tell _you_ the engine’s fucked,” Hank’s voice bleeds humour as he steps out of the vehicle. Connor follows suite, hoping to get a better look.

He doesn’t use it as an opportunity to ogle the man. He doesn’t.

(He does.)

Hank pulls his hair back into a ponytail, or something resembling one, a couple waves of silver still framing his face. It exposes the long jut of his throat usually hidden by hair and beard alike – at least, before he cut both.

The man pushes the hood up, muscle memory, and his shirt lifts just enough for a sliver of his hip to poke out. He feels an urge to have his mouth on the skin, feel the angle beneath his teeth, lick over a mark of his creation.

And, what the _fuck was that_.

“Con,” Hank sighs, and _that’s new._ He swallows hard. “See if you can get a better look now. I don’t see shit.”

“Sure,” He sucks in an unnecessary breath as he steps closer to the hood and the man against it.

 He’s well-aware of their proximity, Hank’s real breath mingling with his artificial own.

He doesn’t cast a glance at the car.

“Yeah,” Connor dips his head to meet Hank’s line of sight. “I don’t think we’re getting home any time soon.”

Hank’s breaths quicken, ears red. His cheeks tinge red. “Should probably call someone out.”

Connor braves a hand at the back of Hank’s neck, digits curled in the hair of his nape. Hank _shivers_.

“Mm,” He agrees, his last fucking thought being the car.

He brings his other hand to Hank’s hip, curling it around the flesh there. His hand travels, slow, agonizingly. Hank’s heart thrums beneath his palm as he pushes him back, back, back, until they’re against the car door.

“Connor-“

The android smiles, nipping Hank’s lobe. He makes an effort to repeat the action when Hank leans into it. “Yes?”

Hank, who has been fairly passive until this point, snakes his arms around Connor’s frame. One hand settles at his hip, the other traces the exposed skin of Connor’s shoulder. He pulls Connor flush to him, chest to chest, and leans his forehead against Connor’s temple.

“You’re sure that you want this,” He rasps, barely a question, cheeks red. Blue floods Connor’s own. “I’m not- I just want you to be sure.”

“ _Yes_ ,” He all-but-whispers, lips brushing Hank’s. He traces his teeth over the flesh for the fun of it and Hank keens. “It’s you, always has been, Hank. You know that.”

Apparently, that’s enough for the lieutenant, because his grip on the android tightens, and Connor shivers at the prospect of his fingerprint being left thereafter.

Connor joins their lips.

Hank immediately responds, lips sliding over Connor’s own. It’s slow, so, _so_ slow. Connor hears himself whine into it as Hank’s tongue traces the seam of his mouth before disappearing, a chuckle that Connor swallows following.

Well.

He’s experienced, despite obvious years of neglect and misuse, and it messes with Connor in every way possible. And more.

Connor’s arms slide over Hank’s shoulders, both in his hair, uncaring as the ponytail falls apart at his hands. He tugs at the strands and pulls Hank down and closer to him, impossibly so, wanting to be as near to the other man as possible. Hank doesn’t protest.

When Connor slips his tongue into his mouth, skirting over Hank’s own, the older man groans into their shared space.

It’s so much more than Connor has imagined, would ever dream of wishing for. His senses are on overload, body temperature at least a degree higher than normal, and he dismisses it all. Lets Hank flood his core. He wants-

He _wants_.

“ _Hank_ ,” The name comes out as a moan, the man in mention’s blunt nails tracing the small of his back. It’s intoxicating.

“I got you, baby,” Hank murmurs against his mouth, and suddenly their positions are switched with Connor seated on the bonnet, legs around Hank’s waist as though this is a practice they know well.

At this angle, Hank’s throat juts out, and isn’t _that_ enticing. He pulls Hank down to lick a stripe up his throat before sucking the skin of his Adam’s apple between his teeth.

“Little eager, fuckin’ Christ,” Hank tries to laugh it off, though the phrase comes out more as a gargled moan as Connor travels to his jaw.

Connor grins against the mark he’s made, one of several, and he thinks if he were human he would be covered in goose bumps because _holy fucking shit_.

“Sorry,” He pulls back enough to meet Hank’s gaze, pupils blown, entirely unapologetic.

Hank just smiles, teeth poking through. His chest heaves as he reaches up to play with a curl of Connor’s hair. He’s breathless, hair stuck to his temples and his cheeks flushed pink. He’s beautiful.

“I love you,” Connor blurts, and it comes out so easy. Naturally.

Hank’s hand falls to cup Connor’s cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone as he rests his forehead against Connor’s.

Connor’s eyes slip shut on instinct.

“You, too,” Comes a second later; quiet, but assured.

Connor leans up to join their mouths again. Hank smiles against his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so.
> 
> It's 3am, I've done nothing but write this for four straight hours, and this is definitely not beta'd. So, apologies for any inevitable typos you find and the terrible attempt at smut below.
> 
> fuck david cage x

4.

Connor wakes to something damp and cold butting at his palm and a heavy weight settled over his legs.

Which isn’t that unusual, really. He’s come to love the daily morning walks with Sumo before Hank even wakes from his slumber, became accustomed to it, and it seemed Sumo had too.

“Down,” He groaned, pushing the dog off of him as he hopped down and settled in the corner of the room, whining as he went. Hank was right, he spoiled the dog _way_ too much.

He cracks open his eyes to the winter sun filtering through the blinds, struggling through thick cloud. Snow blankets the ground and coats everything else that he can see, and the rate that it’s coming down blocks even his advanced sight from analyzing anything in the street.

The android is barely able to see the view through the white that trailed down and stuck to the pane. He notices several children of the neighbourhood bundled up in knitted clothing out in the snow, treating the weather as the phenomena that it is. It’s like something straight out of the postcards that Jeffrey and his wife send over for the holidays.

It’s beautiful. And completely odd.

A quick glance at the alarm clock reveals it’s a little over Eleven, and much later than is standard for him to wake. Even on the weekend.

He’s also still in Hank’s bed; the other side noticeably empty of the human’s presence. It’s still warm where his palm brushes the comforter.  

_Oh._

That happened.

He turns over to hide his smile in the pillowcase, and runs a hand through his, for once, unkempt hair because screw this. He was happy.

He’s been adopting human mannerisms a lot more lately. Namely, thanks to Hank and everyone at the station. He’s... still adapting. But he’s no longer at the point that the word deviant feels like a slur spat at the back of his neck, but rather, who he is. What he's always been.

He runs a hand through Sumo’s fur, paying special attention to the spot behind his ears that he knows he loves, and the dog buffs his appreciation.

“Hey, buddy,” He greets as he heads over to Hank’s wardrobe, pulling on a DPD sweater. It’s worn, lived in. Perfectly apt for this weather if he were human. And comfortable.

Sumo huffs, following after Connor as he leaves the room, settling in the middle of the floor.

Well.

He stops at the end of the hallway, leaning his weight against the wall.

Hank is humming to himself at the stove, scraping a pancake onto a pile at one end of the table. Connor hides his snort behind his hand as his system informs him that its’ an ABBA track that Hank pretends not to be aware of. Just the same as their vinyl at the back of his record collection.

He tries not to scan Hank, or anybody really, now. It feels invasive outside of work and given that that’s what the feature was primarily designed for, he deemed it way too valuable to scrap forever as Markus had chosen to. It felt wrong to analyse every micro-expression of Hank’s, encroaching.

And Hank had made it clear that he felt the same about it.

But, this morning was an exception. Sue him.

Hank’s hair is in a worse state than his, tied up in a bun in which he can’t even locate the hair tie, having not done a thing to prim himself up. He’s merely in briefs, and the long months of healthy eating were definitely paying off. Not that that really matters, Connor fell in love with him for who he was, and his figure was the last part of Hank that concerned him. But it evidently made Hank happier, and that was nothing short of a beautiful sight to the android.

He looked amazing.

Hank attempts to sprinkle blueberries on the food, resulting in many on the table and Hank cursing out an inanimate object.

“Good morning,” He murmurs when Hank’s back is turned to him, popping a berry in his mouth and wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. He presses his lips to the older man’s shoulder blade, keening when Hank leans back into it.

Hank hums a similar greeting, pressing his lips to Connor’s curls. He turns in Connor’s hold, tangling his fingers in the android’s curls with a shy smile. He has to fight off a shiver.

“Hey yourself,” His fingers scratch at Connor’s scalp, curating electronic tingles meant to simulate a shiver.

Connor smiled as he picked at the berries in his hand, content to stay in Hank’s hold for a good while, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Did they get back to you on the car yet?”

Hank stole the last of the food, shooting Connor an unapologetic grin when he swallowed. “Nah, I was on hold for forty minutes ‘til the phone died, though. All this tech and they can’t better customer service, huh?”

Connor ponders. “I could get North to send them a strongly-worded e-mail, perhaps.”

Hank snorted at the thought, toying with the curl that fell in Connor’s face. “Do you _want_ the car back? Or to be responsible for a body count?”

Connor shrugged. “Just a suggestion, Hank. I don’t want it to cause you unnecessary distress.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank dipped his head, pressed his lips to a freckle. “Sorry about breakfast - I didn’t know what you wanted, so.”

Connor blinks with a tilt of his head, and he tries to ignore the need to grin. _Tries._ “So, you made me my favorite?”

Hank’s eyes narrow, expression neutral until the corners of his lips lift into a small smile. “Quit fucking with me, Con. It’s been… a good while since I’ve had someone want this from me, alright?”

Connor feels like his thirium pump is about to fucking _burst_. He pushes hair out of Hank’s eyes, running his digits down the man’s face and caresses his jaw because he wants to. Because he can.

“You’re sweet, Hank.”

Hank’s cheeks flush as he pulls a face, not meeting Connor’s eyes. He lets out a dismissive snort.

“You are,” Connor states, smile gentle. He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, repeats as a smile brightens Hank’s face and sets Connor’s veins afire. “ _You are_.”

“Whatever,” He gets in response, Hank’s mouth at his jaw, which has Connor’s eyes slipping shut. “You sleep alright?”

“Mm,” He hums, enjoying the warmth spreading through his body, the hands sliding down his back. “I don’t sleep, per se, but. Yes, I think I’m fully functional.”

Hank chuckles, shoulders shaking as he twists a finger around the curl that falls on Connor’s forehead, his other burning a hole into Connor’s hip. “That so?”

The low tone of his voice has vaults thrum up Connor’s spine and he thinks if he had lungs, they’d be begging for oxygen right about now.

“Would you like to change that?” Connor blinks, meeting half-lidded eyes. Synthetic skin peels back on his hand as he palms Hank’s cheek, the older man leaning into the touch.

His face is still flushed.

Hank takes hold of his wrist, runs his thumb along Connor’s knuckles. “If you’re trying to get into my pants, this isn’t the way people usually go about it, Con.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor brings Hank’s hand to his hair again, draws out the formality with a breathy chuckle. “I’d like it very much if you were to fuck me, _Lieutenant_. Is that better?”

“Christ,” Hank manages to grunt out a mirrored laugh before catching Connor’s lips with his own, smile still hugging his lips until Connor parts them with his tongue.

He licks into Hank’s mouth, dirty and nothing less than impatient, pushing the human back into the counter. Hank’s fingers trail his body, nails raking skin and leaving white plastic in their wake down to the top of his thigh. He lifts Connor’s shirt, thumbing the sharp jut of his hip.

“Hold on,” Hank pulls back, chest heaving. “You’re sure you want my perfectly crafted breakfast to go to waste? I added sugar and everything.”

Connor mustered up a glare without any substance whatsoever, lips twitching and keeping eye-contact as he palms Hank through his briefs. Half-hard, he muses.

He licks over swollen lips, _knowing_ that it makes Hank’s heart rate elevate. His hand dips inside Hank’s briefs, giving one, singular, aching stroke. “I’d rather it wait, wouldn’t you?”

“Shit.”

Hank stutters out a moan, grip on the counter, Connor’s hip, tightening. His knuckles turn white, jaw slack. He’s overwhelmed; the sight making his own pulse skyrocket. He’s beautiful, perfectly human in every response he has and it’s all because of him. Connor hears a gasp, realizing it’s his own pressed into Hank’s skin.

“Okay, okay,” Hank rasps, hitching Connor up with ease, Connor wrapping his legs around his waist in one, fluid motion, “C’mere.”

His LED whirs a healthy blue.

The path to Hank’s bedroom is considerably _less_ graceful. Connor can’t keep his attention from Hank, sue him, mapping a journey from the grey of his jaw to the red of his collarbone. Hank is so distracted that he trips over Sumo’s sleeping form, almost dropping Connor from the burst of laughter that forces its’ way out.

But the second that they’re under the comfort of the sheets, warmth enveloping him like an old friend as hail batters the window, it’s all forgotten.

“You’re doing so good,” is whispered in his ear, two fingers curled inside him as his own rip into the comforter below without thought. He’s swimming in a fog of nothing but pleasure and Hank’s awe.

At three, Hank sits back and watches him fall apart, stars in his eyes. Connor keens and Hank meets him halfway, thumb parting a willing mouth. Connor sucks at the digit because he _can._ Hank’s actions still for less than a millisecond before he picks up the pace, and Connor loses any ministration of feeling smug. Registers nothing but the man above him, inside him, and how  much he loves him.

Static fills his ears the second Hank thrusts into him, and he feels-

He feels _alive_.

+

5.

Relationships, Connor discovers, are a little hard to navigate. Especially when you’re a deviant trying to juggle emotions and the trials that come along with them. While your kind is scrutinized in every detail, Markus’ trials with the President being daily front-page news.

Still.

For instance, they’re both almost fired from a job they technically shouldn’t have gotten back when Gavin finds him with his tongue down Hank’s throat and hand on him in the Archive room. Or Jimmy kicking them out when Connor knocks a guy unconscious for spilling Hank’s drink.

He couldn’t help it. Really. The thing about having a mind has perceptive and advanced as his own was that it never stopped functioning. Before, that was integral to the mission. Now?

It meant he felt too much and too often, usually for Hank, though he suspected Hank minded very little.

“Con?” snaps him out of his thoughts, Hank’s gloved hand tapping his own – bare in comparison.

“Sorry,” The tips of his ears tinge blue, pressing into the human’s warmth. Hank lifts his arm without question, pulling him close. “What did you say?”

Hank’s lips lift with mirth, front teeth poking through. His cheeks are rosy red despite his being perfectly warm enough for mid-winter. “Just wondering which one bores you the least, is all.”

Connor hums, reluctant to turn his gaze from the snow melting on Hank’s eyelash to the movie posters in front of them. Most are interchangeable, all decorated with an action star and his love interest to one side, antagonist to the other.

He purses his lips with a sigh.

The movie at the end features two women, which in itself isn’t revolutionary. Same-sex relationships are no longer the rarity that they were a decade previous, something that seems to please Hank greatly. It’s not that that draws his interest, but that one is a deviant, blue LED burning into his memory.

Hank follows his line of sight, nodding with a cold smile pressed to his hair. “Good choice.”

Connor doesn’t stop thinking about the medium for the rest of the day, recalling the plot to Gavin the second he greets them after their lunch break ends.

Gavin actually smiles, clapping Connor on the back. “Happy for you, prick.”

Connor smiles from ear-to-ear.

+

+1

The park is identical to the last time he’d come, dusted in snow and Connor at his hip as they sit at the bench, watching Sumo bug everyone in sight for a pet. And yet, it couldn’t be more different to all those months ago.

It doesn’t ache as much anymore.

There was a time when he would come here every night, at the mercy of a bottle until he passed out, bridge in sight and Cole’s last gasps of breath in his ears. The park haunted him, taunted him until his eyes were red-rimmed and his lungs burning.

A year later, the sun shines as strong as it can muster on his back. He can barely feel it through all the fucking layers he’s wrapped up in, but it’s a world apart from the lens of numb grief that he’s used to applying. It’s full of life, laughter, alive.

Connor squeezes his hand, head on his shoulder as he watches Sumo with delight.

He still remembers the first time he’d heard Connor laugh, eyes screwed up in wrinkles that shouldn’t exist as he threw his head back at whatever was on the TV at the time. He’d been so surprised at the sight that he hadn’t been conscious of himself joining in.

His happiness is infectious, and he’s seemingly teeming with it. Deviancy had made him vibrant, express everything with just as much sarcasm and still as full of shit as he had been as a machine, but it’s real. The sight of him smiling still brought Hank’s blood to run hot, ribs constricting his already-fucked heart. He didn’t think he could ever get used to just how expressive the android is without the constrictions of the pricks at Cyberlife, free to feel.

“Excuse me?”

Hank’s hand tightens on the hot cocoa in his grip.

A kid no older than five stands in front of them, rocking on his feet, eyes flitting from Connor’s LED to Hank and resting on Sumo. He’s a tiny thing, not even Sumo’s height, and Hank can’t speak.

“Hi there,” Connor greets, smile tentative. He runs his finger over Hank’s. “Are you alright?”

“What’s your dog’s name?” He blurts, eyes wide as saucers.

“This is Sumo, he loves making new friends.” Connor assures, and the kid seems to relax a little. “Would you like to pet him?”

The kid’s face lights up and he doesn’t waste a second, stroking through Sumo’s fur with a shaky hand. Sumo’s tail wags enough to soak each of them in snow, but the child only smiles wider, laughing with glee when the mutt butts his hand.

Hank dares a glance at Connor. The deviant is smiling something subtle, brown eyes gentle as he watches them. He kneels to demonstrate the spot of Sumo’s stomach that he claims tickles when stroked, making the kid giggle along. Connor breaks out in a grin as the child copies the action and it makes Hank’s chest fucking _ache._

He doesn’t realise the kid is gone until Connor sits back beside him, sending a salute to the retreating figure.  

“Are you okay?” Connor presses after a minute of silence, eyeing the hot tears that stick to his face.

“Yeah,” Hank breathes in, smile genuine as he pulls Connor into a hug that would probably leave a human breathless. The android relaxes in his hold instantly, hand sinking into Hank’s hair and stroking through it.

“I think I am.”


End file.
